Adam and Eve in the garden.

I’m going to apologize right up front. You should run, now.

 

So, God creates the world, including the garden and all its contents. He puts Adam and Eve in the garden, along with the serpent.* Shit happens, Jophiel evicts them, here we are.

So is it as petty as “you did something I told you not to”? At what point do the descendants’ good deeds in an evil world get us forgiveness? (If we’re still paying for the sins of Adam and Eve, isn’t that an argument for reparations to descendants of slaves?)

If the sin was the knowledge of good and evil, does God expel Adam and Eve for having the skills to judge? Shouldn’t God, having created man in his own image, think this is a good thing? I mean, at least he’d have someone to talk to. Or is he unhappy that now people can question him? Isn’t that a dick move?

I’ve been listening to a podcast about the arguments for an evil god. If we go with this, doesn’t it make man more good, to be fighting an evil god?

Anyway, it’s all first cause arguments, and I’m kind of into the circular nature of time – or that our puny little brains can’t know. And it all might be a simulation, but I choose not to go there and instead believe in the golden sunlight and the blue sky and the green grass, which I have to go mow.

*OOOO god – omniscient, omnipotent, omnivorous – ooo, wait, maybe he wants to eat Adam and Eve’s children? “be fruitful and multiply”. So the serpent narcs god out.

But wait – what if god (through Jophiel**) pitches A and E out, and starts over? Again and again? Assuming infinite time and infinite chances, god gets it right, creates perfect people – what would they look like? And given infinite chances, would god stop? And isn’t this an amazing argument for the multiverse? Or a better one for Stoicism, where I can just say here I am I don’t need to think about all those choices and can just go mow the lawn?

** And why Jophiel? God talked to them before, why doesn’t he now? Because now they can see him?

I’m going to mow the lawn.

 

Carnival barkers.

Or, We are all monkeys.

I tend to jump in with both feet. Sometimes with both feet in mouth. It’s awkward.

So in conversation a friend, M (who is loving and caring and overwhelmed by the crazy around her to the detriment of her health) was told to think about the situations she finds herself in and determine if she is the audience or the actor. I think that’s a lovely way to think. Am I supposed to jump in with both feet? Or should I put those same feet up on a chair and watch with a big bowl of popcorn in my lap?

For more subtlety,  there’s the ever popular “Not my circus. Not my monkeys.” Friend L and I were using this to stand back out of our children’s lives. Which worked for about an hour until I realized that while this might not be our circus, they were our monkeys.

So, from the circus/monkey praxis we can develop four categories, which I will try to rate according to “how this shit will fuck me up.”

!.) “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Bring on the popcorn. With REAL butter, please. And a soft drink.

2.) “My circus, but I am not truly engaged with these damn monkeys.” They came from an outside source, who is merely renting my tent. I just need to keep them from tearing the canvas or pulling up the stakes. When this is over, I will enjoy a shower and a leisurely dinner with a lovely glass of wine, or possibly two.

3.) “Not my circus, but what the hell are my monkeys doing?!?” Time for high-level discussions of where your choices (in parenting, selecting friends) went so terribly wrong. Go shopping for something nice for yourself – a book? fine jewelry? and lots of bandages. Those monkeys get scraped up so easily.

4.) “This IS my circus! These ARE my monkeys!” Oh dear. I am so sorry. Angst. Self loathing. Dread. Panic. Confusion. Again, sorry, but this is one of those times your parents tried to toughen you up for. Put your head down, and push. Also, call all the monkeys who are not directly involved and ask for help. The ones that show up? Are the ones that have self-selected to Be. Your. Monkey. Acknowledge that shit.

 

 

 

Summer sky.

 

 

 

So I haven’t totally disappeared.

Got no clue, except I’ve been working Saturdays, and I’m feeling peevish.

But I was at the hardware store – Sunday – and I noticed this thing called a jab saw, and I thought that was very interesting.

It was right next to the precision pry bar, which, I have to admit, had a certain je ne sais quoi, and a pleasant heft and balance in a compact size.

I blame trump, of course.

(All of which reminds me; that by convention, you don’t need to provide translations of other languages in art history papers. Something to be smug about.)

You’ve probably seen this on face book, but if not, here!

Communications.

Or, “Have I Told You About My Cat?”

Katniss has shared our home for 6 years, I think. What happened before that is sketchy, except that she spent several months at the shelter until I decided to grab her up instead of Starbuck, the cat Daughter wanted. (Mom fail. I am ashamed.) (Not really. Who wants a cat that sits around and does nothing?) Katniss missed out on much typical cat learning: she still doesn’t jump up on things, for example. And sitting on the lap? Total no-go.

But we are all adaptable, and have learned to communicate, like that Star Trek episode where Picard had to learn to communicate with people who spoke in metaphors. It can be tiring, though.

Katniss was being a cat, and ripping up a section of rug. We tried many ways to divert her, and it wasn’t working. We happened upon YET ANOTHER scratching post, and brought it home. It has little dangly clumps of feathers, and I would get down and wiggle them (with a stick – I do not get my flesh that bleeds anywhere near those claws. She’s a careful kitty but accidents do happen, as does shrieking), and she learned it was good and also a great place to scratch. She does use it to scratch, but she also uses it to get my attention, and so the game begins.

She scratches, and I guess what’s going on. Is she wound up? Do not go there, Mortal! Did she flash that bit of white belly? Come worship my glorious belly, Hooman. Is the scratching display something of a mixed bag? Bend down and pet, Hooman, but then I will jump up and lead you down the hall to your bedroom where you will open the window for me (works sometimes, and she doesn’t ask unless it’s mid-forties or above, so she has some understanding of the weather outside. Smell? Only thing I can figure).

And there’s the Thing, especially about 9:52 pm, just before my bedtime, where she jumps up and starts rubbing her face on the corner of my laptop, or walking across the keyboard or scratching and leading me away or generally being Annoying, all of which means Hooman you have had your time in that chair now I Needs It. I guess I’m glad she doesn’t covet my bed.

Daughter was like this, in the beginning. I’m sure I’ve told you about the freak-out on the hiking trail, which I finally figured out was about “Sticks and stones may break my bones” rather than a generalized fear of trees, or outdoors.

We all live in a tiny house. A little bit ago, I said “Hey I’m getting in the shower now,” and heard nothing. So I go out to the living room and say “Hey Daughter I’m going to take a shower now,” and she says/communicates in all those ways, yeah, okay, I heard you but I did not realize I was supposed to answer and who is the weird one here me or you?” all not in a mean way, but she doesn’t respond in a way that I think is fundamental to living in a in a tiny house with another human. But also I talk to myself, and Daughter to the cat. We’re always guessing what’s going on, and who is saying what to whom. So who is the weird one? I don’t know. Certainly not Katniss.

Sometimes this house is too small. But enough of this, the windows are open, and there’s things I want to do. Onward Spring!

About Assange.

I am royally pissed at him. What he did in the 2016 election was self-serving bullshit. He didn’t want Clinton elected because she vowed to extradite him, so he aided the Sentient Yam. Which is what will get him extradited.

Assange and Roger Stone and Don Jr. worked together on the release and timing of the DNC records. Assange and Don Jr. were communicating as late as July 2017. Assange was pressuring Don Jr. to be named Australian ambassador to the United States. There is so much shit buried in the Mueller report! Ugh.

But the charges levelled against him have nothing to do with any of that, and that concerns me, because the charges laid against him refer to the Chelsea Manning release of documents, and that is a big problem, because those charges are levelled against him doing work as a journalist, and as Americans, We. Can’t> Let. That. Stand.

My big concern is that the current administration will get their hands on him, and that will be the last we hear of him. But then again, I read somewhere that information is uncontrollable in the modern world. Let’s hope we’re not too post-modern yet. Or maybe that explains disinformation campaigns.

(I can’t find where I read about Stone’s case having classified components, because they relate to ongoing investigations. But the Assange portion of the paranoia comes from Empty Wheel. I haven’t chased down the rest of it, Schutte and Vault 7, because I need to use my brain for daily living.)

(Also, have you seen those pictures of Assange coming out of the embassy? This is what happens to you if you obsess about shit and never go outside. Go outside. Do something different. Shave, if you need to. Or at least comb your hair.)

Oh shit.

I haven’t written anything for a week. Again. Or is it two?

I’m taking a community ed writing class (see? I’m busy! I gots the excuse). I don’t know, we’re like four weeks in and I read for the first time on Tuesday, and I got done and the first comment was “Were you stoned when you wrote this?”

Probably won’t read again.

Anyway, all the news sucks and I hate what America is now, which for me is great because I can no longer bear the news and so I am doing Other Things. Do you remember books? Really. Too bad my attention span is about 14 seconds. But I’m trying! Currently, The Secret History of the Mongol Queens is barely holding my attention – but some of that is because there are so many ideas in it to seek out. Manichaeism!

I’m continuing to look at philosophy. I’ve been listening to Peter Adamson’s’ podcasts, but branched out when I wanted to think about Karl Marx and ended up at Panpsycast.  Funny thing: Adamson is american, teaching from King’s College (I think), so all these posh people come in for guest interviews; Panpsycast is a couple of weirdos with totally not posh accents, one of whom is teaching at a high school somewhere I think. Philosophy; not only for the elite! or something.

I lost the ramp in front of my house, which is where I was taking all the photos of things I’d made. I wonder if that is part of my slump? But I’m making again.

Top one? Bangles? So, so boring.Never. Again. Bottom one? Yes, it was oscillating. No, I have no patience. It’s better than it looks, the stone is green-blue, and it was also the first go-round. I have other ideas now.  The second bracelet shape came from thinking about a corral for the banglers. Well, I like it.

Finally, words for the wise; don’t let the crazy people set the agenda. (Also, this might be why people ask me if I’m stoned when I write.)

Downer stories. Move on. Save yourself.

“Chronic sorrow and disenfranchised grief.”

64 examples of disenfranchised grief

Chronic sorrow. 

Being alive can be hard.

Today. Hmpf.

Today started like a beautiful dream, I was in control, I had time, beautiful.

That shit’s over.

And the day proceeded, and it wasn’t bad, but I was bad, and eventually I succumbed. So, after a certain period of time where I gave voice to my current frustrations (Yeah. I yelled. I visciouslyvisciously  chopped onions and potatoes, but damn it I cooked dinner! and it wasn’t what I was going for but it was okay. And then I took an alprazolam, and did useful things, so we’re here now, and it’s okay now). Then I did things. Constructive, non-destructive things. I drilled a hole in the bottom of a flawed ceramic cup and divided my African violet and planted half in it, which is all make do and life affirming and stuff. I dug out two fountain pens, and tossed them into warm water to clean out the jams, prepping for a writing class that begins next week (starting a new class! A new notebook and everything! (I hope this is good. I hope it doesn’t turn out like Daughter’s writing class, where somebody wrote that it was okay  that the one kid died, because the other kid got better because Jesus, and maybe she misheard or maybe there was some deep level of Margaret Atwood going on, but I credit Daughter with clear vision.)

And then I picked up my current book and read:

Art was not an after-school special. Art was not motivational speaking. Art was not sentimental. It had no responsibility to be hopeful or optimistic or make anyone feel better about the world. It must reflect the world in all its brutality and beauty, not in hopes of changing it but in the mean and selfish desire to not be enrolled in its lie, to not be coopted by the television dreams, to not ignore the great crimes all around us.

Bam, motherfucker.

We were Eight Years in Power, by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Talking about hip-hop, and how it made him understand the power of words where he lived.

So maybe I’ll give you that happy happy story from this morning. Or maybe the other part. I don’t know. I just hope it’s true.

(ETA: Check out today’s Sinfest; http://sinfest.net/view.php?date=2019-03-08 . The Universe is speaking.)

More chick stuff.

AOC calls out WSJ.

Also, this thing called “Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez Derangement Syndrome”, or AOCDS, Which you can’t spell without OCD, or Old Coot’s Damage.

Also, I apologize to people who suffer with OCD. My anxiety levels are nearly disabling some days, so I’ve had a glimpse into that life. Ack.

My life? I’m taking an improv class. My first take-away? Introverts shouldn’t sign up for a class where the first rule is talking out loud right there in the middle of things. And jumping in. And being in the middle of things. But, my current operating paradigm is, “finish it,” which means not dropping out. It’s a small thing, in a small town. I can do it. Also, I realized part of my life is in a real-life version of Cicely, Alaska, which is a new and interesting perspective. The improv teacher is also a writing teacher, so I signed up for a class with her, so maybe I’ll post more here – if the class fills enough to run (yay lifetime learning!).

And speaking of finishing things, a list of the things that most need finishing; the comet wall hanging, that has been finished except for the border for four years? And the sweater, which is down to one sleeve. And a shirt, for which I bought the material and have the pattern and a pair of pants to wear with it and the yarn for the socks to go with it. But right now, today, is a good day for either running errands or taking a nap. Nap was winning, but the snowblower guy came through with enough noise to wake me up, so maybe it’s errands.

Beautiful sun, beautiful blue sky, beautiful white snow, and the unintended results of having a grapevine growing over the window attracting birds.

(I am decidedly in the minority in enjoying this winter. I’ve been able to just stay home if the weather is bad, which is a totally different experience.)

 

Trying to be “not-shrill” on Facebook

I would post this there, but it’s not really a place to go when you want someone to read more than six words. And because I’m just itching for that hemlock, I still have to post things.

So here’s a Twitter thread from some man, “explaining” that the NYT did a bang-up job of covering the 2016 campaign, and that while he maybe shouldn’t have used the word “cackle” (he can see now that maybe that was a gendered pejorative), really everything the paper did was A-Okay! I quote Patrick Healy, the man in question;

I’m proud of our 2016 coverage and our team. I don’t think we applied double standards to Clinton, but I’m mindful of the criticism.

This reply is a favorite!

There are many many more juicy bits.

I’m still angry.

ETA: Charles Pierce had a link to this guy Tomasky, and I like what he’s saying: https://www.thedailybeast.com/screw-uniting-the-country-thats-not-what-democrats-need-in-2020?source=twitter&via=desktop